


Get Loud

by hetrez



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bad Sex, Good Sex, Humor, M/M, Recovery, Relationship Negotiation, post-monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetrez/pseuds/hetrez
Summary: Eliot waved his arms, nearly spilling the sparkling water. He said, “I don’t have bad sex, okay? I’m not built like that.” That was a lie, the ghosts in his happy place knew how much that was a lie. What he meant was that he didn’t have bad sex with Quentin. They never had, it was like a law of nature or something. Except tonight was apparently going to break a 53-year record, goddammit.“Well, you certainly had bad something,” Margo said.Or: look, everybody hits a slump sometimes, okay?





	Get Loud

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I can write stories where Quentin is fucked up about everything and uses sex to work it out, or I can write stories where Eliot is fucked up about everything and uses sex to work it out, but so far I can't write them both. This one is Eliot's.
> 
> It's also kind of a sex farce and kind of a serious look at the way PTSD manifests in the body? I don't know, The Magicians has broken me.
> 
> This story deals with the aftermath of Monster-possession as well as the issues around friendship and love that Eliot _clearly_ had before being possessed by the Monster, so -- be aware.

**Attempt #1: Spontaneity**

Quentin, his clothes wadded up and held in front of his chest like armor, looked around at the walls, the window, anywhere but Eliot. He said, “Yeah, so I’m gonna…” and scurried out.

Eliot, sitting with his shirt half-unbuttoned on the rumpled bed, the taste of Quentin still in his mouth, didn’t make a move to stop him. After _that_ level of epic failure, they both needed a breather — 

Maybe it was a breather — 

It had to be just a breather. With everything they’d survived and all the ways they’d fought for each other, a little awkward sex, even epically awkward sex, couldn’t be enough to fuck them up for good.

Probably.

“That went well,” Eliot said, and rubbed his face.

—-

Eliot went to the kitchen for a midnight drink, and Margo was there, polishing her axes.

Eliot — overheated and sweaty, feeling six different kinds of embarrassment and three kinds of frustration — wished, for just a minute, that it was three years ago, before all of this started. He wished that he could join her for whiskey and a bitch session and they could be their old, fabulous selves again, ruling Brakebills with nothing bigger to worry about than who their sponsors would be.

Then he saw her smile, that sweet smile she only ever gave to him and Josh, and kiss one of the axe blades. And he remembered that he wouldn’t ever wish her to be less than she was.

He still wanted a whiskey, though, and he knew he wasn’t getting one. That post-Monster addiction fuckery was the gift that kept on giving.

“Do we have sparkling water?” He asked her.

Margo shrugged. “The fridge is enchanted to never run out of groceries, so, probably?”

“Thank god,” Eliot said, and grabbed two large bottles.

Margo put her axe on the counter. “This is not the behavior of a man who’s been well-laid,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Eliot said, feeling sulky.

Margo narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait, for real did something happen? This was supposed to be your big, romantic reunion screw.”

“Nothing happened,” he said.

Technically, that wasn’t absolutely true. Eliot _had_ made his confession and they _had_ had a romantic moment. After weeks of recovery, weeks of fighting the Library and wrestling with his memories and his fear and pain, he’d been — not better, but ready. He had been ready, and he’d asked for what he wanted, and he’d been brave.

The kiss had been worthy of the golden era of Hollywood. Eliot had been very proud of himself.

And then. Well. He had another embarrassing memory to add to his chalkboard of shame, was all.

Margo, who knew what he had been working himself up to, said, “Eliot.”

“It’s a setback,” he said. “But I’m sure somebody’s therapist once told me that those happen sometimes.”

Margo said, “El.”

Eliot waved his arms, nearly spilling the sparkling water. He said, “I don’t _have_ bad sex, okay? I’m not built like that.” That was a lie, the ghosts in his happy place knew how much that was a lie. What he meant was that he didn’t have bad sex _with Quentin_. They never had, it was like a law of nature or something. Except tonight was apparently going to break a 53-year record, goddammit.

“Well, you certainly had bad something,” Margo said.

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about it, and if you say anything to him I will never have the chance to try again, so can we just — talk about something a little more pleasant? Like how the world is still ending? How are Kady and Alice doing with their hedge school?”

Margo put her hands up. “Okay, I’ll drop it for now. But I’ll get it out of you sometime.”

Eliot smoothed a hand over her hair. “I will tell all, Bambi, I promise. Just not today.”

Margo came and tucked herself under his arm, and something inside of him, like always, came unknotted when he held her. “I could tell you the story of how I got my axes again.”

The version of the story she told Eliot was better than the version she told anyone else, because it had a half-naked psychotropic vision of him dancing in snakeskin. “Always,” he said. “Come on, Q went back to his room, come lie down and tell me.”

Margo opened her mouth, frowning again, and then she shook her head. “More bed for me,” she said, letting it go. God, he loved her. He would even take a shower before he snuggled her, to show how much he cared.

 

 

**Attempt #2: Planning**

“Maybe we were just. Unprepared,” Quentin said.

“That’s probably it,” Eliot said. They were back in Eliot’s bedroom, fully clothed this time. Eliot was sitting at the drafting table (why) in the corner. Quentin, when he’d come in, had gone straight to the closet and dragged out a chest big enough to hide a body in, and perched on it with his arms around his knees. Eliot had started to ask where the hell the chest had come from and how Quentin had known about it, and then he’d bitten his tongue. More Monster-era stories weren’t always better.

“I mean, I want to,” Quentin said. “Like, more than anything.”

“I do, too,” Eliot said fervently.

“And we know what to avoid now. All the, you know, the not-great stuff from last time.”

Eliot nodded and nodded.

Quentin said, “We’ll just.”

“Yeah.”

“Plan for it. Plan to, you know, have some sex. So we won’t be surprised next time.”

Eliot said, “Yes. Sched-u-al it. Put it on the — calendar.”

“Maybe tonight?” Quentin asked.

“Yes,” Eliot said. “Tonight. Sure. That works, that’s definitely a good idea.”

“Okay, then,” Quentin said. “Tonight. It’s a plan.”

Eliot said, “It’s a plan.”

Then Quentin _reached out his hand_ , as if they were going to shake on the bargain, and they both looked down at it. Quentin sighed. “Goddammit,” he said.

 

 

**Attempt #3: Role-Playing**

Quentin, on the couch writing out practice exercises, turned bright red and hunched over, hiding his face, when Eliot came into the living room. Julia, curled in the gold chair, very politely pretended that she didn’t notice. Kady, perched on the coffee table with a map of the pipe system in her lap, genuinely seemed to not notice. But Penny, standing by the window, turned to them, looking gleeful.

Fuck. His shields had been so much better Before the Monster (™).

Eliot projected, as loudly as he knew how, that if Penny made fun of Q in that moment he wouldn’t live out the rest of the day.

Penny wrestled with his smile, crimped it down into a little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and went to sit next to Quentin. “It’s okay, man,” he said quietly, “We’ve all been there.”

Quentin jerked like someone had goosed him. He stared at Penny, looking surprised, then looked around. He made a ‘Who, me?’ gesture, and Eliot loved him. “But not really,” he said, just as quiet.

Penny glanced at Eliot, and his hidden smile faded into something gentler. “Yeah, it’s cool. Just sleep it off, try again later if you want to.”

Quentin said, “Okay, yeah. You’re right.” He rubbed his face and went back to his notebook, but he didn’t look ashamed anymore.

Eliot backed up and went to the dining room. He didn’t actually have a teaching gig at the hedge school or a role in the revolution yet, he’d just been feeling social. But he could wait a couple minutes.

Penny came in while he was examining the giant picture of a bee that someone had put up (why), and when Eliot said, “Thanks,” he shrugged.

“Fix your shields. And maybe don’t do embarrassing shit in the apocalypse party bus if you don’t want everyone to know you’re being embarrassing.”

“Words to live by,” Eliot said. So that was one idea they weren’t trying again, at least until they had a little more privacy.

Eliot was keeping the Han Solo outfit, though.

 

 

**Attempts #4, #5 and #6: Toys**

Quentin set a fire in the metal rubbish basket next to Eliot’s bed and then dumped the rope into it. “How are we so bad at this? How? How.”

Eliot put his face in his hands. “You didn’t need to burn it,” he said. “That was silk.”

“ _Oh yes I did_ ,” Quentin said. He reached for the blindfold and the gloves.

“But I like those,” Eliot said.

Quentin’s glare could have melted glass.

“But not actually that much,” Eliot subsided.

“I don’t fucking understand. I love it when you — I want it. Why is it so awkward and, and wrong-feeling?” Quentin asked.

Quentin, Eliot had learned from multiple vicious married-people arguments, sometimes got so angry that he cried. It was as if his body couldn’t hold all the emotion inside of it, so it leaked out of his eyes and clogged up his voice and made him need to blow his nose. Most people thought that made him weak, but Eliot had found it terrifying, at first, how much Quentin felt _about Eliot_ and all the ways it fucked him up.

Quentin was tearing up now, and Eliot wanted badly to hold him. Eliot also wanted badly not to be touched, and the not-touching won out. He squeezed his hands between his knees.

“I don’t know,” Eliot said. “Maybe we —“

“I swear to god, if the next words out of your mouth are about breaking this off —“

“No!” Eliot said, too loud. Quentin shut his mouth, his eyes wide and surprised. Eliot continued, more quietly, “No, I just think maybe we —“ no, that wasn’t true. “Maybe _I’m_ not ready. To be. Touched.”

“Oh,” Quentin said.

“I thought I was. I want to be ready.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin said.

“It _fucking isn’t_ ,” Eliot said. He had goddamn survived, and the reward for making it out alive was being too much of a mess to have sex with the man he loved? What a horrible system. And the system didn’t even work right, because it’s not like he stopped wanting to, just because he couldn’t. He felt so desperate for it at night, sometimes, that he felt like he was going to die.

“I don’t know, I might not,” Quentin started. 

Of all the sweet, wrong-headed things. “Q,” Eliot said. “You don’t have to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m saying, just, I might not be ready either.” Quentin said. “I guess maybe I thought, if we just.”

“If we could get this right,” Eliot said. “This thing that used to be so good.”

“I thought it would fix everything.”

Eliot said, “Or make it better, at least. Sex makes everything better.”

Quentin sighed. “It’s so nice,” he said, dreamily. “I miss you.”

“God, me too,” Eliot said. All of a sudden he _was_ ready, he was so hot for it that his hands were tingling.

Quentin took a step toward him, looking hypnotized. “I miss touching you.”

“Yeah,” Eliot breathed. Quentin so rarely talked about what he wanted that whenever he did it just _got_ to Eliot in the worst way.

“I miss you holding me down. I miss —“

Then the smoke alarm went off, and that was the end of that conversation.

 

 

**Attempt #7: Talking**

“Are you breaking up with me?” Quentin asked, sounding incredulous. “I cannot believe you. After your whole, whole big —“

“No,” Eliot said, reaching for calm. “I’m just saying, something is clearly not working here.” He gestured between them, at Quentin standing with his shirt half unbuttoned and one sock still on, and Eliot sitting on the round bed (why) with his hair a mess and a cut on the inside of his mouth from when they’d accidentally bonked their faces together. “Maybe we can make the proactive decision to stop mashing ourselves together until we’ve figured out what that is. I want to have sex with you, Q, I just also want us both to enjoy it.”

Quentin flinched. “I am,” he started.

Eliot flopped back on the bed. “Neither of us are enjoying it. That’s not fair.”

There was quiet, and then the sound of footsteps. Then Quentin sat on the bed by Eliot’s hip. “What are we doing wrong?” He asked. “Do you think it’s what we talked about last week? That we just need to wait, like really wait?”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Eliot said. He rubbed at his eyes. “We’re just not doing anything _right_ , either.”

Quentin laughed, a sad, quiet thing. He scooted back and lay down next to Eliot on his side, and Eliot rolled over so they were facing each other. From this close, he could feel the warmth of Quentin’s breath on his face, could smell Quentin’s clothes and skin. He had missed this so much.

“Do you remember the last time we had sex?” Eliot asked.

“I’m guessing you don’t mean last week.”

Eliot shook his head.

“Or the last time we actually succeeded in exchanging orgasms, which would have been with Margo.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said. “That’s not what I was asking about, either.”

Quentin smiled. “Yeah, I do,” he said.

They’d been old — seventy, maybe seventy-three. When he was younger he would have thought that was too gross. _Old-people sex_ , get it away. But when you’re that age it’s just sex.

“It never stopped being good, did it?” Eliot asked.

Quentin rolled his eyes. “What exactly did you think I meant when I said, ‘We work’?”

Eliot smiled. He felt soft, and a little sad, and comfortable. Quentin had always made him feel comfortable, like nothing he could ever do or be would be too much. Even these last few weeks, when it just wasn’t working, he’d still felt like part of a team.

Well, if they were going to be a team, Eliot thought, he had better act like it. “Maybe we should still wait. But I don’t think it’s just that.”

Quentin’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?” He asked.

Eliot said, “When you asked me, that day in the throne room, and I said no. It wasn’t because I thought it hadn’t been real.”

Quentin frowned, and leaned a little closer. They hadn’t talked about this when Eliot had made his big rom-com confession. They hadn’t actually talked about much, come to think. ‘I was wrong and I love you and I want to try this’ had done the job, but there was more that needed to be said.

Goddammit.

Eliot said, “I knew it was real. I just thought.”

Here goes nothing.

“I thought, ‘Of course we work, because I was a better person there.’”

Quentin looked baffled. “What?”

“Did you ever stop and think about why it was so perfect? I mean, who spends half a century stuck in a tiny cottage with his best friend and comes out wanting to do it again, when his best friend is,” _say it, Waugh. If you don’t say it now then you’re never gonna say it_. “Me.”

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said. He was beginning to sound angry. “I have no idea what we’re talking about right now.”

“I raised our son, Q. I sewed our clothes. I _farmed_. I drank in moderation.”

Quentin sat up. “What, so you think that the quest made you —“

“I think it _allowed_ me,” Eliot said. He sat up, too.

Quentin waved his arms. “You think it _turned you into somebody else_ , and that’s why you loved me?”

“Jesus, no."

Quentin looked relieved. "Okay," he said. "So we just --"

Eliot said, "I think it took away the awful parts of me and stuck them in a box somewhere, and that’s why _you_ loved _me_.”

And there it was: the fear he was holding inside himself. That the worst parts of Eliot had been held in stasis without him knowing, everything that was petty and jealous and needy and mean. Of course Quentin would want to build a life with Eliot when Eliot was better, kinder, more generous. It felt so good to finally say it, this thing he had been keeping close to his heart the whole time they had lived together, and all the months since they'd come back.

Quentin stared. He opened his mouth, then shook his head. “I can’t believe I am having this conversation. This is such bullshit. You think I wouldn’t have _noticed_?”

“Would you, though? If the quest didn’t want you to?”

“Yes!” Quentin said. He looked furious. “Yes I would have noticed, and I probably would have said something, and I definitely wouldn’t have come on to you if I thought you’d been _magically lobotomized_. Besides, I was horrible the entire fucking time and you still raised a kid with me, so.”

Eliot said, “I get the incredible irony of me saying this, but be serious, please.”

“I am being serious! I just.” He clawed at his hair, and took deep, even breaths.

“That’s where you fell in love with me, right?” Eliot asked softly. “In that clearing, where everything was perfect?”

Quentin stopped the deep breathing. He stopped yanking at his hair. He looked at Eliot, and the anger fell off him like he was taking off a coat, and he said, “Oh.”

Yeah. Oh.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Eliot said. “I’m not saying no. This is a very enthusiastic yes you’re getting from me right now. It’s just that this might be. Part of why we’re having performance issues.”

Quentin reached out and ran his fingers through Eliot’s hair. It felt incredible, like always, and it was Quentin’s dirty trick to help him relax when he was wound up about something. Eliot sighed, and leaned his head into it.

“So,” Quentin said, voice soft and steady. “You think the man I fell in love with wasn’t real.”

“I mean, don’t you think that’s a possibility?” Why else had it been so easy? Why else had it felt so good, and how had he not fucked it up? The only other time Eliot had felt that way in his whole life had been with Mike. Mike, who’d been a puppet for the Beast.

Quentin scratched at his scalp again, and Eliot almost purred.

“It’s difficult to keep up the layer of defensiveness I need for this conversation with you doing that to me,” Eliot said.

“Yeah, no shit,” Quentin said. “Why do you think I’m doing it?” His voice was so soft. “Look, El. Maybe we weren’t in love before we went back in time, and honestly I have no idea. But you have been a part of me since the day we met. Not you with the edges sanded off, or whatever you think happened at the mosaic — and to be perfectly honest, if that’s what you believe then you’re not remembering some of our fights—“

“Q,” Eliot said.

“Right, right. Okay, so. Here it is: I walked onto the lawn at Brakebills, and you said my name and you looked me up and down, and you were a part of me. Simple as that. And that meant something different before, but _this_ is what I want it to mean now. If you think I’m not in love with you, the real you, right now, then give me time.”

“Q,” Eliot said again. Fuck. This was the hard part. This was something he hadn’t wanted to even tell himself. “That’s not all.”

“Of course not,” Quentin said. “Come down here.” He tipped them back on their sides again, and put both hands in Eliot’s hair. “Is this okay?”

“You’re cheating,” Eliot said, “and if you stop I will cry.”

Quentin huffed a laugh. “Okay, what’s the next thing.”

Eliot closed his eyes. “I’m so angry, all the time.”

Quentin’s hands tightened on his hair. “That’s understandable.”

Eliot said, “I feel like pieces of me are still missing. Only not just pieces. Sometimes it’s everything.”

It was even more than that. Sometimes he was fine, which was confusing as hell because sometimes he felt cavernously empty, and sometimes that same cavern was filled with nothing but rage and grief. He felt, sometimes, like his skin was hard plastic, smooth and slick and not human, impenetrable — and other times he felt like that same skin had been flayed off and all his nerve endings were exposed. Julia, the other day, had called it, ‘chaos brain’: the way he could be eighteen different things at once, most of them in pain, none of them fitting together the right way.

Eliot said, “I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to the way I was.”

Quentin was quiet for a while, and Eliot tried not to think of anything at all, while he waited for an answer.

“So even if I convince you that it was the real you, before,” Quentin said.

“Who the fuck even knows who you’re getting now?” Eliot sighed. “Jesus. When I promised myself I’d be honest with you, I really didn’t think there’d be so much _talking_.”

Quentin took his hands from Eliot’s hair, and moved to cup his face. “Listen. It’s a risk. I get that. Maybe the person you are right now won’t like me much either.”

What? No, not possible.

Eliot opened his eyes, and Quentin’s smiling face was right there. He was so handsome, it made Eliot crazy.

“And if you do want to actually wait until we’ve both recovered a little more, not just talk about waiting — I can help, you know, to figure that out. It's, this is a lot.” He rubbed one thumb in front of Eliot’s ear, and pressed the other one to Eliot’s mouth. “But for the record? I don't think think there’s anyone you could be that I wouldn’t love. And I mean, a down to my bones kind of feeling. Okay?”

Eliot watched him, the way he smiled, how steady he looked. If Quentin was lying to make him feel better, Eliot couldn’t find it. “Oh,” he said. Then he leaned forward and curled up as small as he could against Quentin’s chest. God, the way Quentin smelled. The sound of his heart.

Quentin, having learned over many years how to take a hint, wrapped both arms around Eliot and squeezed him tight. “So do you want to take a nap or something? Somebody told me once that I’m like the world’s perfect body pillow.”

Eliot laughed. He felt so light he thought he’d float away. “I can’t believe you remember that. We were so drunk.”

Year eighteen in Fillory, with Teddy on a camping trip. Eliot had gotten blitzed on carrot wine and stood in the middle of the lawn surrounded by piles of mosaic tiles, and he had yelled out all the things he loved about fucking Quentin, while Quentin tried frantically to shush him because _the neighbors don’t live that far away and we have to look them in the eyes on Market day, El, would you shut the fuck up_?

Quentin said, “It’s still the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Come on, you wanna? No expectations.”

Eliot wanted.

 

 

**Attempt #8: Spontaneity Again, Maybe?**

They slept the clock around.

Eliot woke in the bright morning with Quentin’s back against his chest and their arms tangled together. Sometime in the night they had both wrestled their shirts off. Now all Eliot could think about was skin, and how much he had missed this, and how he had lost sight of all the other amazing things about being with someone, when he was so focused on the sex.

He stuck his face in the hair at the back of Quentin’s neck, and hummed. Quentin wriggled a little, and his hands tightened on Eliot’s. “I’m awake,” he said. His eyes would be closed for the next half hour, but sure, he was awake.

Eliot squeezed him tight, tight, tight. He used to keep an imaginary bag of adjectives in the back of his mind. Every time he thought of a new word for how good this thing was between the two of them, he’d make it into a Scrabble tile and stick it in the bag. Today, Quentin’s body felt marvelous against his. Incomparable. He ran his hands down Quentin’s arms, then grabbed onto his hips. He rubbed his mouth against the back of Quentin’s neck.

“Um,” Quentin said, his voice a little high-pitched for morning. “What exactly are we doing?”

Eliot stilled. “We don’t have to?”

“No, we do! We absolutely do, just.” Quentin pulled out of Eliot’s arms and rolled over until they were face to face. He looked turned on and sleepy and frantic and delighted and _very_ confused. “I thought. Waiting?”

Maybe next time. Maybe after this it would get difficult again. Maybe they would need to talk and talk, maybe Eliot would have nothing but bad days forever. But right now, as suddenly as flipping a circuit breaker back on, what he wanted more than anything was to _take Quentin apart_. “I mean yes in a general sense, that would be good,” he said, rushed. “But right now I want to hold you down and touch you all over. Can I do that?”

Quentin, if possible, looked even more frantic. “Oh my god Jesus, yes. Why are you asking?”

“Q, consent is impor—“

“If you don’t kiss me right now, I will never forgive you,” Quentin said.

Eliot kissed him, the kind of deep kiss that made them both wild for it — and it felt right again, they fit perfectly again, thank god. He grabbed Quentin’s wrists and pinned them above his head. Quentin melted into it, and Eliot grinned. _Welcome back, us_ , he thought.

—-

Afterward, they lay in a heap on the floor where they’d landed when they’d rolled off the bed, and stared at each other.

“What,” Quentin said. He looked like he was in shock. “What just happened.”

“We enjoyed ourselves, is what happened,” Eliot said. “I think.” They had to get off the floor, but he didn’t want to move. But he desperately wanted water. He may have levitated at one point.

“We were so loud,” Quentin said, weakly. “Everyone is going to kill me, and I can’t even be worried about it because I feel too good right now.”

Eliot said, “They’ll have to go through me first.” He didn’t feel up to fighting a blanket, but it was the principal of the thing.

Quentin said, with complete conviction: “They will absolutely go through you first.”

“Oh,” Eliot said. “Okay.”

Quentin inch-wormed over until he was tucked up against Eliot’s chest, his sweaty skin sticking to Eliot’s sweaty skin, and tried to burrow into him. “Listen, in case our friends do come and kill us for being louder than a death metal concert, I just want to tell you that I’m really glad we got to do that again.”

“Me too,” Eliot said. He wrapped his arms around Quentin.

"And I stand by all the stuff I said earlier."

"Waiting, part of you, nobody I could be that you wouldn't love?" He kept his voice light, but it gave him a thrill to his toes to say it.

Quentin batted at him. "Yeah, that."

"Same." Eliot yawned into his hair. “You know, if they don’t come and kill us, we’ll have to get off this floor at some point.”

Quentin curled up even closer. “One problem at a time,” he said.

“Okay,” Eliot said. That was fine. He was pretty sure he’d set the sound-proofing wards anyway, and if he hadn’t then Bambi would have chivied everyone out of the apartment for brunch or something. And if that hadn’t happened and everybody really was bothered, he could take them. If he ever recovered.

But that was for later. Right then, all he wanted from life was to stay in a pile on the floor with Quentin, shivering with aftershocks, feeling astonished by this thing he'd fallen backwards into and so happy that he got to keep it.

So he did.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Margo took everybody for coffee.
> 
> 2) I am still not over Josh's round Vegas Honeymoon Suite bed. It's my new headcanon that Marina stuck beds like that in every room, and nothing anyone says will convince me otherwise.
> 
> 3) I _will_ write that breakfast burrito fic, I swear to god.


End file.
